Just another poor writer
left in a bed of thorns
anger and situation
soul can't
turn in the grave
no more

Offer the body
of works left to find
shadows of memory
birthed at the begining
left in shackles of mine

So he writes for the worker
he lays for the night
sleeps with arms
full of empty
captures the fright

Whispers sweet romance
cries at the passion
gone cold
Counts on one hand
all of the writing he sold

Touch a mist of love in the palm of souls calling
Weary the weak as a newborn child
Fight of the sane
Bed is a col
Sleep to balm
Gone in love
Body fails
Takes the plum

Sometimes we just pass the perfection
Rest in hue
Done in conviction
Vote for a shrew
Amber starker
Than pain
Width softer
Ah earn

Will mixed
Want dives
Perfection in action
Knees and body
They lie

Gabber of quake
Sub on never
Dun day is late

Comfort knocks
At his door
She sleeps
He just
Pulls up the floor

Riddle stops
Pride was she
Name
She loved him
Shared his pain

...and the nighttime
Turned to daylight
His shadow her
Ghost on the shire
Mary loved
But love died
At her core

Some boy
Said it was wonder
Another said it was cast
Capstone lady
We breathe
Our last

Touch a mist of love in the palm of souls calling
Weary the weak as a newborn child
Fight of the sane
Bed is a col
Sleep to balm
Gone in love
Body fails
Takes the plum

Just another poor writer
left in a bed of thorns
anger and situation
soul can't
turn in the grave
no more

..and the book is with out color
as the writer climbs the stairs
working his way to heaven
only his lover cares

She sleeps soft as baby
holding her book tight
kisses the sunshine
all is her write

Chains are a fever
burning the midnight oil
bed sheets are a linch pin
saver the cold black soil

Blessed by the rose
held by the thorn
walks forever
in the critics storm

...and I was a writer
a lover of yesterday gold
maker of children
both of which we hold